


going where you've been before

by snipsford



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Astral Projection, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, M/M, Original Mythology, Post-IT Chapter Two (2019), Stanley Uris is alive with ZERO explanation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:47:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27264490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snipsford/pseuds/snipsford
Summary: In which Eddie Kaspbrak comes back to Richie Tozier.There’s a rumbling in the room after Eddie knocks. He waits, shifting from one leg to the other, and then - he hears a chain rustle and a deadbolt slide the other way - Richie opens the door.He looks pale, his jaw drops, and - maybe it’s from the Clown shit - he pushes his glasses up. It’s soft: “Eddie.”Holding his breath, and hearing his heart reverberate in his throat, Eddie paces past him, into the dim hotel room, rushing forward. “Hey, yeah, so Richie--”“You’re awake.”
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 8
Kudos: 41





	1. ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> honestly ya'll this is a thinly veiled quarantine fic

> > _ Do you remember that day in October?   
> The leaves were changing just like me when it was over.   
> One more day of sorrow and I’ll struggle to stay sober.  
>  _ _ Hope to see you later when I get older. _
>> 
>> _... _
>> 
>> _ I think I saw you but I know I’m not supposed to.   
>  _ _ I must be dreaming ‘cause I don’t believe in ghosts.  _
> 
>   * _Ghosts,_ Jacob Tillberg 
> 


* * *

This, theoretically, should be nothing. It’s a door. A door with fresh paint and a fingerprint smudged deadbolt. There is, _emphatically_ , nothing scary about a fucking door.

Eddie Kaspbrak knows what real scary is. After everything that happened in the Sewer, the fucking Ritual of Chud -- a fucking door shouldn’t be frightening. 

Maybe it’s not fear. Not exactly. Maybe it’s that Eddie has suddenly remembered the first sixteen years of his life and, now that the storm has passed, he has time to think about his sorry childhood and the sorry adult he became, and how it’s kind of pathetic in the grand scheme of things that he’s devoted the last twelve years of his life to the same fucking insurance firm, doing the same paperwork, circling in an office chair. He once spent four years working with lawyers and analytics just to perfect the insurance on one travel management company’s merger with another travel management company. And, to boot, he’s never even been outside the U.S of fucking A. It’s all unbelievably stupid. How, after everything he’d gone through in 1989, could he have gotten so…

So fucking complacent. 

Granted, he’d forgotten all about that. But the line fucking stops here. 

And that’s why he’s here: boring holes into the wood frame of a door, taking a deep breath, as he raises his fist. Because, sure, maybe Eddie doesn’t know what he should do next. But he does know that he can’t go on like he has been, not after all this. 

And, here he is - stepping, knocking, _moving forward_ \- waiting for someone far more spontaneous than him, to help him work through this. And, of course, here he is -- confident that he will - because what else are friends for? 

There’s a rumbling in the room after Eddie knocks. He waits, shifting from one leg to the other, and then - he hears a chain rustle and a deadbolt slide open - Richie Tozier opens the door. 

He looks pale, his jaw drops, and - maybe it’s from the Clown shit - he pushes his glasses up. It’s soft: “Eddie.” 

Eddie holds his breath. He can hear his heart reverberate in his throat as he paces past Richie, into the dim hotel room, rushing forward. “Hey, yeah, so Richie--” 

“You’re awake.” 

“I--” Eddie starts. He pauses. “What?” 

Richie blinks. His eyes are red and wet and, honestly, it’s a little frightening. “Holy shit. Eds!” There’s a tiny laugh strangled somewhere in his throat He’s following Eddie back into the hotel room and throwing his arms around Eddie’s shoulders. He’s so warm and so very loud in Eddie’s ear when he yells, “You’re here! You woke the fuck up and you’re here!” 

“What the fuck are you talking about? Of course I’m awake, it’s, like, 3 p.m. And you can’t take naps after, like, one, or you’ll throw off your whole circadian rhythm.” 

To that, Richie bolts back, robbing Eddie of the warmth and pressure he’d enveloped him in and the hotel room suddenly seems cold. “No...I mean...you checked yourself out of the hospital. And you’re _awake_.” 

“Why the fuck do you keep on saying that?” 

Richie blinks. His smile evaporates. His mouth’s transposed into one thin line. “Eddie...dude, you’ve been in a coma for the two weeks.” 

The earth rotates under Eddie’s shoes. His knees bellow and he collapses on the understuffed winged chair in the corner of the room. “What? No I wasn’t. No. I was _not_ in a fucking coma.” 

“Well then I got real chummy with a couple of your nurses and the ladies in the cafeteria for absolutely no reason.” 

“Shut up, Richie.” It’s a reflex. And one Eddie obviously doesn’t mean because he’s following it up with: “What the hell are you saying?” 

Richie, slower than Eddie’s ever seen him move anywhere, approaches him. He’s walking slowly, like a housecat circl.ing a brand new living room looking for a place to throw up, and eases himself onto the bed. The mattress squeaks under his weight. “What exactly do you remember, Eds?” 

Eddie crosses his hands at his chest. “I don’t need you to fucking tiptoe around me. Of course I remember everything! We were under Neibolt. Mike’s ritual didn’t work. So we were fighting It--” And if the details are growing fuzzier and fuzzier by the second, Eddie won’t admit it. “You were in the Deadlights and I threw a spike.” 

“And then?” Richie prompts.

“Then I---then I---” Eddie’s throat close up. He can’t get the air up through its esophagus and so it sits there, stale and heavy in his mouth. Just like blood. “I was impaled.” 

Richie nods, slowly. 

Eddie’s knuckles tremble as he covers his lips with his hand. “No. No. That couldn’t’ve happened. I’m right here.” 

“It happened, buddy.” 

Eddie throws his hands up in the air. “Well then how the _fuck--”_

“Hold on.” Richie frowns. He leans forward and their knees knock. He’s staring at Eddie’s face. Not at his eyes. His face. Down by his cheek...his mouth...

“What the shit are you doing man. I’m having a fucking panic attack and you’re just _staring at me?_ What the fuck?!” 

“What? No.” Richie pushes back a little, at least so far as his face doesn’t get blurry when Eddie looks at it. “It’s just--your scar’s gone. From when Bowers stabbed you in the face.” 

Eddie gapes and touches his cheek. Sure enough: There’s no butterfly clips and no thin line from where his skin should’ve melded back together. “What the fuck?” He breathes. 

Richie pulls back. He’s green. But no sooner could Eddie ask, “Richie?” than Richie leans over the trash can. He heaves. It doesn’t look like anything comes out, but he wipes his mouth on the back of his hand anyway. 

And then he sits, and looks over at Eddie. Without preamble, he mutters, “This feels like another one of It’s tricks.” 

Eddie frowns. “Why would It wake me up from a fucking coma, fix my scars, and make me forget that I was in a coma in the first place?” 

“No. I mean,” Richie unravels the peppermint room service left for him at his bedside table. The staticy sound back-tracks in Eddie’s ears as Richie rambles, “That you’d wake up and come here.” 

“Why would It--” 

Richie interrupts him, shifting on the seat. “How’d you know where I’m still in town, anyway?

“Because I--I...I don’t know. I...remember passing out. And then...this.” Eddie’s throat closes up when he thinks about it. There’s a gap here, and he hadn’t even noticed it. It’s not a patch of blackness or whiteness or whatever. All he remembers is the wind, his friends screaming at It - _you’re a Clown, a fucking Clown! -_ and Richie’s hand pressing up to his. Then, he remembers Richie running off to join the rest of them - Mike and Bill and Ben and Bev and Stanley - and everything got heavy and Eddie passed out. After that - if he’s trying to make a timeline here - it’s just Eddie at Richie’s door in the Townhome. 

“So you don’t remember waking up in the hospital _and_ you don’t remember getting here?” 

“That’s what I just said.” 

Richie holds his hands up, palms out. “Okay, okay.” 

“It must just be amnesia or something.” Eddie crosses his arms at his chest and holds onto his elbows for dear life. 

“Weirdly specific amnesia. ” Richie breathes. “Maybe...maybe we should give Mike a call.” 

“Mike?” 

“He’s in town. Maybe he’d know if you’d checked out of the hospital or something. And this is a lot of weird occult shit. He’s our resident expert in weird occult shit.” 

“Occult? I’m sure it’s just medical.” Eddie says, padding his hands on his jacket pockets. He can feel his stomach through the fabric of his clothes. “Like, I hit my head. Or have a fucking brain tumor or something.” 

“These days I feel like occult’s more likely.” Richie taps at his thighs and, after a moment, stands up. He’s wandered to the minibar and pulls a bottle of Maker’s Mark. “But, hey, why not a little of column A and a little of column B?”

To give himself something to do, Eddie pats at his front pockets. They’re empty. No phone.

Oh no.

He pats himself down, again, checking his back pockets, once - twice - three times over. No phone. And, for that matter, no wallet or keys or anything else either. Not even lint. 

“Uh. Hey, Richie?” 

“Yeah?” He’s poured a couple fingers into two highball glasses and looks up, twisting the cap. 

“I can’t find my phone.” Or keys. Or wallet. But Eddie shakes that much off. 

“I’m on it,” Richie says, placing the glass on the table. He shoots it back in one fell move, and doesn’t even shudder as it burns down. 

Eddie, shaken, lets his glass tremble in his hands. He sighs and sips. It burns right from the get. 

Richie holds the phone, the tinny ring goes through the speaker phone. 

After two impossibly long rings, Mike’s voice sounds. “Richie? Are you okay?” 

“Yeah, man. I’m---I’m fine.” Richie stammers. 

Eddie wants to open his mouth to speak, but he’s too busy coughing at the booze and waves at Richie to go on. 

“Hey, yeah. So, Mike,” Richie says. “Have you gotten any updates on Eddie?” 

“Well..no. Not really. It’s the same, last time I checked.” 

Eddie bristles. With the alcohol all the way down his throat, he’s free to talk. “What do you _mean_ it’s the same as before?” 

The line is quiet. 

Eddie looks up and meets Richie’s gaze. He frowns. 

Mike speaks up. “Rich? You there?”

Richie coughs. “Uh. Yeah. I’m here, Mike.” 

Eddie’s jaw drops. “Mike? Did you hear my question?” 

Mike: “Good. How are you holding up? You sound….off.” 

“ _Mike!_ Can you hear me?” 

Silence. 

“Richie?” Mike asks again. 

And, at this point, Eddie jumps to his feet. Whoever said third time’s the charm was on some kind of unbelievable bullshit. He clasps at his elbow and paces, back and forth and back and forth until something makes sense. Richie looks over to him and Eddie shakes his head. 

“ _Richie?_ Are you okay?” 

And so, Richie takes the lead: “C-could you swing by the hospital just to see Eddie, real quick?” 

“Richie, I don’t know if this’s--” 

“Please. I just...I just need to know how he’s doing.” 

Mike pauses. “Okay.” 

“And come by my room when you’re done, no matter what it is, okay?” 

“Okay. I’ll see you soon.” 

“See you soon.” 

No sooner has Richie pressed the red button on his iPhone, than Eddie erupts. 

“ _What the actual fuck was that about?_ What kind of shitty speakers do you have? He couldn’t hear me? What’s that bullshit?” 

“Look, man. I don’t know. I’m just as freaked out as you are.” 

“ _Are you?”_ Eddie snaps. “Because you didn’t just realize that you’ve been in a coma for a month, don’t have any of your personal effects, and can’t be heard over the phone! Holy shit.” Eddie’s blood runs cold. “Am I a fucking ghost? I can’t be a fucking ghost, right? Somebody would’ve called you if I died in the hospital, right?” 

Richie shoots back another drink. “Well...no, actually. Your wife is your emergency contact and none of us Losers are anywhere on your records.” 

“Right.” Duh. Why would they be? He’d forgotten them up until...well, at this point, it was just a few weeks ago. “Well. _Fuck.”_

Richie squints up his eyes and shakes his head, as though trying to expel the thought from his brain. 

Which would be a nice sentiment if Eddie wasn’t freaking the fuck out right now. The room’s getting taller - the air’s getting thinner - the world is spinning, all of it, just because Eddie might be dead _. Just dead._

Small favors, though, because his second drink goes down a whole hell of a lot easier. 

“But we don’t know that, right?” Eddie mutters. “Maybe your phone sucks and I just - fuckin’ - lost my memory on the bus ride over? Along with my phone and my keys and my wallet, right. Like. That’s more likely than me dying in my hospital bed and shit, right?” 

Richie only chews on his lip. “Here’s hoping,” He murmurs. 

* * *

It’s a lot of pacing and a lot of hand wringing for the next hour. Eddie moves around in front of the window from one side to the other and Richie stares, dead-eyed, at a patch of ugly yellow carpet. And they wait. 

Eons pass before comes a knock at the door. Richie rushes to it, a gnarly blur of bright colors and gaudy patterns. 

Mike stands, a tall beacon of light and answers in the doorway. Eddie could practically cheer. “Hey, Richie,” He says quietly. 

“Hey,” Richie repeats and ushers Mike in. “C’mon in.” 

Eddie waits. His heart is in his throat. All his worries seem stupid now. Of course he’s here. He can feel the weight of his shoes on the carpet and the scratchy tag on the back of his shirt. He was able to burn his throat when he drank Richie’s bourbon. He’s right here. Real as day. And, to prove it, he says, “Hey, Mike.” 

Mike turns and faces only Richie. “I checked in on Eddie, and he’s the same.” 

Richie swallows. “Really?” 

Mike nods. “He’s stable, but still unresponsive. I’m sorry, man.” 

Eddie’s knees fall out from under him. “What the _fuck?”_

Richie frowns and Mike, seeing Richie staring over his shoulder, spirals around to look behind him. His eyes scan over the room, washing over Eddie without a hint of recognition. “Are...you okay?” 

“What the _fuck_ is going on?” Eddie asks, instinctively looking for his respirator. Richie crosses the room, quickly, standing next to him. 

“Rich?” Mike blinks. 

Richie wets his lips and takes a shaky breath and, putting a hand quickly on the back of Eddie’s shoulders, goes for broke. “So, Mike, we have a bit of a problem. Eddie’s here.” 

There’s pity in Mike’s eyes and it’s fucking infuriating. Eddie half wants to yell at him to cut the shit, but bites his tongue. Mike exhales slowly. “Richie…” 

“He just showed up. I can see him and hear him fine. And we--we thought he must’ve checked himself out of the hospital but...you can’t see him - or hear him apparently - and he’s still in the hospital but...but he’s right here.” 

“Richie…” Mike pauses. “You haven’t been doing very well lately. Are you sure you don’t--?” 

“Holy shit.” Richie’s voice cracks. “You’ve lived in this supernatural dump truck for twenty-seven years but _this_ is where you get skeptical?!”

“No, it’s not that.” Mike holds a pacifying hand out. His voice should be soothing, but all it does is make Eddie want to throw something. “But this isn’t the first time you thought you’ve seen him, right?” 

Wetness starts to build up in Richie’s eyes and Eddie swings his glance back to him. “What does he mean by that, Rich?” 

Richie sighs and bites at his lip. “It was just, like, glances at the grocery store and shit. But you’re--Eddie’s--actually here this time!” 

“Where?” Mike asks. 

“Right next to me.” 

Eddie even waves, but there’s no recognition. 

“This is bullshit. I’ve had enough of this,” Eddie mutters. He stomps over to the nightstand and, pulling the complimentary pen and paper from the drawer, notices how Mike’s eyes get huge. 

Okay. Okay. This is good. 

Eddie scribbles on the pad. _Hi Mike._

When he’s finished, he holds it up and Mike’s jaw drops. Tears well up in his eyes. And Eddie wonders what it looks like to Mike - the pad of paper must be floating in midair right by his nose. 

Mike glances up. It should be eye level to Eddie, but it’s way too far to the left. “Oh my God. Eddie. This’s you?” 

Eddie scribbles, right below: _Yep. What the fuck is going on?_

“I--I don’t know.” Mike says. “What happened, specifically?” 

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Richie responds. “He just showed up and started this haunting bullshit.” 

“Har har, Rich.” Eddie mumbles, “You’re not funny.” 

Mike frowns. “It’s not a haunting.” 

Together, Richie and Eddie perk up. It’s probably a good thing that Eddie’s invisible, for the shame of their simultaneity. 

Mike goes on. “It can’t be. Eddie,” Mike tries to look at an Eddie-adjacent area, but misses him entirely. “You’re still alive. If it’s a haunting, it has to be a ghost. Or a demon. But you’re neither, so. Not a haunting.” 

“Then what the fuck is this?” Eddie asks, forgetting for a beat that Mike can’t hear him. 

Thankfully, though, Richie fills in. “So, what is it?” 

“I’m not sure. I spent the last few decades studying It and Derry. This is kind of unfound territory,” Mike says, cringing a little, but goes on: “My best bet would be some kind of astral projection.” 

Eddie asks, “What’s the goddamn difference between that and a ghost?” 

Richie translates: “How is that _not_ a ghost?” 

“Well, because Eddie’s still alive. There shouldn’t be any reason his astral body can’t reunite with his physical body.” 

“Holy fuck.” Richie blinks, a little out of breath. Or maybe that’s the booze. 

But, Eddie, on the other hand, has never felt more wired. “Okay. Perfect. Let’s go to the hospital so I can jump back in…” 

Richie shakes his head. “You’ll have to fly on over yourself. Visiting hours are over. I can’t get in. It’s six.” 

Eddie blinks. “How the hell do you know that?” 

“I’ve been visiting you a lot.” 

Mike coughs, as though to remind them he’s only privy to half the conversation. “He probably can’t fly.” 

“That’s lame.” 

“Shut up, Richie.” 

Mike elboates, maybe guessing Eddie asked why not: “If he’s going around knocking on doors and writing on notepads, I’d imagine his astral body has to obey the same physics. So, if you get hurt, you’d really get hurt. If you’re gonna try flying, though, jump off something _low.”_

Eddie shakes his head. He slouches on Richie’s couch, and mutters, because there’s nothing else to say: “Y’know, Mike, I _am_ right here.” 

Richie winces, but Mike just blinks around the room. 

“So, Mikey, what do you suggest? Just waltz into the hospital and have Eddie...fuck, I dunno, _reabsorb_ himself _?_ ” 

Mike blows low out, and he stares up at the ceiling. “I dunno. I never actually read too much about ghosts or astral projection or anything. I got familiar with a couple occult bookstores when I was trying to figure out what to do about the Clown. I’ll give them a call and see what I can do.” 

Eddie sits back up. “So, what, am I just supposed to sit here and twiddle my thumbs until tomorrow?” 

Richie translates for Eddie, and Mike lets a small smile surface, friendly and warm, and if Eddie weren’t so pissed off, it might have helped alleviate the fucking anxiety a little bit, when he says, “I mean, you’re welcome to do your own research, Eddie, but yeah. Until we know what we’re working with, you just kinda have to sit tight.” 

“Yeah, well, let’s just hope this works because I’m freaking the fuck out, man.” 

Richie snorts. Eddie glares, and Richie says, “He’s starting to hyperventilate.” 

“Calm down. Hopefully it’ll be simple. But, if it isn’t, we’ll figure it out. I promise.” And, Mike’s addressing Eddie, that’s for damn sure, but he’s staring off into the opposite corner, and his gaze is too high that - even if Eddie _was_ there - it wouldn’t have met his eyeline anyway. 

* * *

Mike leaves without much more fanfare, promising he’ll call that bookstore tomorrow, and a warm, “Get some sleep,” directed to Richie and the air around him. Eddie slumps. He picks at his cuticle and notices there’s no blood or dirt underneath his fingernails. If his real, flesh and blood body, was slumped out directly from underneath Neibolt there must be any number of disgusting things left there. 

The door clicks shut behind Mike, and Richie taps at his thighs and asks, “I need another drink. You down, Eds?” 

“You sure I’m not, like, leaving a puddle under me when I try to drink something? It’s not going straight through me?” 

“I just thought that was piss and I didn’t want to say anything…” 

“ _Dude? What the fuck?”_ Eddie jumps up and stares at the floor, looking for the bourbon puddle and… Eddie glares as he catches Richie snickering. “ _What?!”_

“I’m sorry, man. I just couldn’t resist.” 

“Fuck you, man. Fuck you.” 

“Take me to dinner, first.” Richie says, pouring a second glass and sliding it over the countertop.

It feels too juvenile to stick his tongue out at him, so Eddie resists, gripping the glass in his hand and - it burns when it goes back, as though he’s really here after all. 

Night falls over them, suddenly and abruptly, with blood red and violent oranges streaking through the sky, and Richie pulls the mattress from the sofa in his hotel room. 

Eddie takes it, because he doesn’t know the last time Richie’s bedsheets were changed and the amount of anonymous skin cells and hair in hotel beds is absolutely fucking appalling. 

(So much for not falling back into old habits). 

They lie in bed, the late summer moonlight streaking through the window, and Eddie stares up at the ceiling. After a moment, he asks, “You awake?” 

“Yeah? What’s up?” 

“What are you still doing here? In Derry, I mean.” Richie’s quiet, and so Eddie goes on: “It’s been weeks. Shouldn’t you have, like, gotten back to your life by now? Hasn’t everyone else?” 

“Oh.” Richie says softly. “Well. I only have to work in person, like, four months out of the year. I figured I should stick around just...just in case you woke up.” 

Eddie’s holding his breath. He knows that much; he just doesn’t know why. “Why?” 

“I’ve met your wife. I figured you’d want someone around to get a celebratory beer with so you won’t want to plunge right back into your coma the second you open your eyes.” 

“Oh, fuck you.” 

Richie chuckles. It’s a musical sort of sound. It’s nice, paired with the crickets down below and the old creaky sounds of the Derry Townhouse. 

* * *

The hospital-intensity of white light hurts Eddie’s eyes as he steps into the room. It’s a better thing to fixate on, between the blindingness of the incandescence and the body in the middle of the room. 

It’s a trip. Eddie’s lying there - or, well, his body is - sallow and pale. He has an oxygen mask strapped to his face, all kinds of tubes up his nose and down his throat and he has needles in his hands. The EKG beeps, slow but persistent.

“Holy shit,” Eddie mumbles. 

“Yeah. It’s hard to look at.” 

Eddie circles around his bed, blinking. He looks sallow and stiff. Dead. But -- he has to remind himself, he’s not. 

Choking slightly, he looks up. Forces a smile. “Okay. Well. Get me out of all this shit as soon as I wake up, okay?” 

Richie snickers. “I’ll do my best.” 

Eddie nods. Catches his breath. Waits. “So, I guess I should just...climb in?”   
“All aboard the S.S Kaspbrak.” Richie says, but it’s half hearted and Eddie can _tell_ some kind of anxiety is getting to him.

If only it were knowable. 

And if only he knew what to do about it. Instead, he says, “Shut up. I’ll see you when I wake up.” 

“Sounds good.” 

Eddie nods. “Okay.” 

“Okay.” 

And, there’s no more putting it off. Eddie doesn’t know why he’s so anxious about this. What if he climbs back into his body and he’s trapped there? What if this doesn’t wake him from his coma and, instead, locks him down deeper? 

What if he never wakes up at all, and can only be a passenger in this still empty body forever. Only hearing Richie come to visit, maybe the other Losers. Richie mentioned that he’d met Myra. Maybe she’ll visit and he’ll have to listen to her wailing cries. 

But - if it’s only a matter of him returning to himself, physically, there’s no reason he won’t wake up. He’ll flutter his eyelashes open and Richie will pull him out of the tentacle-medical supplies wrapping around him and Eddie will get the chance to start over. 

That thing he’d been yearning for when he knocked on Richie’s door in the first place. 

It’s funny how quickly he’d forgotten about that. 

But, okay. This is the best he’s going to do. It’s the only thing he has to go on.

And so, Eddie takes a deep breath. He steps forward. _One for the money…._

Another step closer to his body - he can barely see the movement in his chest - _Two for the show…_

He looks back at Richie. Richie pantomimes salt shakers behind his shoulders and gives him a half-hearted wink. He looks just as terrorized as Eddie does. 

_Three to get ready…_

Eddie nods and turns back to his body.

_And four---_

He holds his breath

_\---to---_

and lies down on top of himself. 

_Go!_

When he opens his eyes again, he’s still lying on top of his comatose body. He frowns. Glancing up at Richie, he sees his friend with his brows furrowed, chewing on his thumbnail. 

Eddie sighs. He pivots around. The bed jostles, but he’s careful not to pull any of the tubes or wires from his body. He wraps his arms around himself, a bizarre sensation of mismatched symmetry, and squeezes. _Four to go--_

He opens his eyes again, and he’s just straddling himself, hugging it tight. 

If the situation were any different, he’s sure Richie would be laughing at him. 

He tries once more - this time pressing his forehead to his forehead, and squeezing their heads together. 

He’s not sure why this would be more likely than the rest of his body, but...well, it seems cinematic enough to work. 

_Four._

_To._

_Go._

It doesn’t work. Eddie pulls back with an irritated sigh. “Why the fuck isn’t this working?” 

Richie frowns. “Search me.” 

“Did Mike say anything about how I’m supposed to do this?” 

Richie shakes his head. “No. Here. I’ll run out and give him a call--” 

“Don’t you dare leave me in here with myself!” Eddie chokes. 

“Well, I can’t use my phone and fuck up all your electrodes and shit!” 

“That’s not even how this works!” 

“Then how _does_ it work?” 

“Whatever -- I’m coming out with you.” 

Richie nods. And holds the door for him. A nurse or two glances at him for the delay where he’s holding the door emptily, but, otherwise, no one pays him any mind. 

* * *

Richie puts the top on his convertible while they’re inside. He has Mike on the speaker and they can hear pages rustling on the other end of the line. 

“Yeah, man. I dunno.” Mike says, “I’m waiting on a book but it’s from this mom and pop bookstore, not Amazon. There’s no overnight shipping, so we’ll have to wait.” 

Eddie groans, smacking his head into the back of the seat. 

“Not exactly loving that right now, Mike.” Richie says. 

“I’ll keep looking into it. In the meantime…I dunno. Sit tight?” 

“And do _what?”_

“There’s nothing you can think of that we can just _try?”_ Richie asks. 

“You have the Internet. You can poke around and see what you can find for yourself. Otherwise,” Mike pauses a beat, thinking. “Try stimulating brain activity. Go for a run or learn an instrument or a new language or something. See if that wakes you up.” 

Eddie sighs. It’s half a habit, though, and he still says, “Okay. Yeah. Thanks, Mike.” 

Richie has to translate: “Yeah. Thanks, Mike. From both of us.” 

Eddie tightens himself to the door of Richie’s car, and watches his fingertips go white on the dashboard. He leaves trails in the dust that’s collected there. “That’s really gross, Rich. Don’t you ever dust this fucking thing?” 

“Could you eat?” Richie redirects the conversation, turning the key in the ignition. 

“I had your booze yesterday. So. I assume.” 

“No, I...I meant ‘Are you hungry?’ Sorry. Guess I should’ve said.” 

“Oh.” Eddie’s neck feels hot, but he brushes it away. “Yeah. A little.” 

“You wanna get chicken nuggets?” 

It’s such a normal, up-front question, Eddie can’t help it, he snickers, and figures - well, sure - why not? “With fries and a McFlurry?” 

“Aren’t you lactose intolerant?” 

“Who even knows? Can astral bodies have allergies?” 

“I am the wrong man to answer that question. But, let’s go and try, my man.” 

Richie gets a few odd looks at the drive through window for looking over his shoulder about dipping sauces, and Eddie has to take some extra care to not grab his bag right from the beginning, lest someone see bags of fast food just floating in the air next to Richie. 

If the situation weren’t so dire, Eddie imagines he might find this kind of funny. 

That doesn’t mean Richie isn’t about to make a joke about it as they drive away. 

“Y’know, how people’ll ask what’s the first thing you’d do if you turned invisible?” 

“Who asks that?” Eddie asks, mouth half full of nugget and barbecue sauce. 

“People! C’mon, man, you’re gonna ruin the punchline.” 

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Okay. Sure. That’s a thing I have definitely heard before.” 

“No. It’s gone now.” Richie shakes his head. 

“Couldn’t think of a joke with that, huh?” 

“No! It just wouldn’t be funny anymore.” 

“Sure, Rich. Sure. Sure. Whatever you say.” Eddie says. They’ve pulled out of the drive-thru and, with an opportunity at the stop light, shoves a nugget into Richie’s mouth without thinking. 

He sputters for a moment, coughing. His cheeks are pink and as he hacks it down, starts laughing. “Shit. Can you imagine what that looked like? Like I just catapulted a nugget into my mouth from my dick or something!”   
Eddie rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “That was supposed to shut you up, dude.” 

“Never!” The light switches to green, and they move forward once more. 

“Why are you so preoccupied with what other people might see?” Eddie asks, after they’ve turned down another road closer to the Townhome. “What the hell makes you so special that people are watching every little thing you do?”

And, surprisingly, Richie doesn’t have a rebuttal to that. Instead, he holds his hand out, “Throw me another nug, won’t ya?” 

Eddie does, and they wait, he’s staring out the window, pressed up with his nose against the glass. He watches the fog from his breath. It’s so hard to believe, the ridiculousness of the situation. He’s here. He’s tangible. But, at the same time, not really. As far as he can tell, he’s real. But - nobody else sees him. 

Except for Richie.


	2. been tryin' hard to reach you 'cause I don't know what to do

> _So you don't know where you're going and you wanna talk_
> 
> _And you feel like you're going where you've been before_
> 
> _You tell anyone who'll listen, but you feel ignored_
> 
> _Nothing's really making any sense at all, let's talk._
> 
> _\- Talk,_ Coldplay 

  
  


When Richie’s eyes bolt open in the morning, facing the blurry bumps on the popcorn ceiling at the Derry Townhouse, he can’t believe the fucking dream he’d just had. This whole grief bullshit is really getting to him, that’s for damn sure. But - fuck - he’d had this whole elaborate set-up in his mind. Eddie had come to him - just knocked on his door, and boom, he’d been there. But nobody else could see him.

That figures. That checks out. Not even Richie’s subconscious could let him be happy. Not after everything that happened in the summer. 

It’d seemed so real, though. 

Feeling stupid, Richie slides his glasses over the bridge of his nose and lifts himself up on his elbows. The pull-out couch is secured in place, no ruffled blankets, no sleeping Eddie. Nothing. 

Of course it was a dream. Duh. 

Richie’s laptop is open on the coffee table, the screen a reflective black. Had he forgotten to turn the computer off last night? He can’t remember watching a movie or jerking off or anything like that. Funny. He can’t remember anything leading up to that damn dream. It’d been so all-consuming. 

He kicks the blankets off his body, working up the courage to face another long day of Skype calls and arguing with his manager, looking over scripts and jokes and contracts, going down to the hospital just to be told no progress has been made. It’ll take a bit. 

“Oh, thank fuck you’re awake, dude.” 

Richie jolts up. He yelps. Spins around in the hotel room and sees him: Eddie. He’s standing there in Richie’s Nirvana t-shirt and his hair’s all ruffled and Richie’s mind goes in a million different directions at once, but he manages to condense them into, “Fuck! Holy shit!” 

Eddie blinks. He holds his coffee cup under his chin. “Not a morning person?” 

“Fuck,” Richie slumps back down onto the bed. Not a dream after all. Eddie’s really here. Or, halfway here. _Astrally_ here. 

Whatever. It’s fucking weird. 

“You good?” 

“Yeah, ‘m fine.” 

Eddie slides him a coffee cup - the stuff inside is black and thick, a darker roast than Richie usually has, and when he tries to sip it, it’s dense and he coughs a little. Eddie doesn’t comment on that, but rather says: “I tried to take Mike’s advice and look up this astral projection bullshit, but I can’t crack the password on your laptop. I would’ve figured something like ‘TitsandPuss1’ but no dice.” 

Richie fakes a laugh, coughing over his coffee cup. “Yeah, no. Let me.” 

He lays back on the bed and ambles his legs and arms to maneuver to the coffee table, still with his ankles hitting the mattress. He wiggles his fingers on the track pad, and when the screen bursts to life - a save screen filled with a purple jellyfish colony - types in the passcode. November1519seventyfive. 

Before August, he had no idea why that date stuck in his craw. Hindsight. They say it’s twenty-twenty. 

Richie’s home-page bursts to life. The wallpaper’s a poorly lit photo up against the coat room backdrop filled with dripping umbrellas and jackets, with Richie, Went, and Gabriel Iglasias standing around, blankly grinning at the camera. 

“Shit,” Eddie mutters from behind him, jolting Richie back to the present. It’s funny, because of all the supernatural mumbo-jumbo happening, but Richie swears he can feel the heat from Eddie’s body as he slides up behind him. “Your dad got _old.”_

“And getting older every day.” Richie says.

“What’s this from?” 

“A charity event from a few years back - after my second Netflix special I got invited to do a Comedy Cares event. Dad got super stoked about it,” He pauses, if only for effect. “Not for the charity or anything, just ‘cause he always wanted to get out and support Fluffy - thinks his shit is the pedestal where all comedy should try to meet - won’t even snicker at _my_ stuff if I don’t do a voice with it,” Richie winks. “So, I got him backstage to meet him.” 

“You don’t do voices in your shit.” 

Richie snickers. It’s true. He always wanted to - he thinks he’s gotten a lot better at his voices and accents since he was a kid, but his writers never give him the opportunity to sneak anything in but airheaded coeds and douchebag CPAs. “Shit! Maybe that’s the missing ingredient in finally earning my father’s love.” 

“Oh, shut up,” Eddie shoulders him, not unkindly. “You never had to earn either of your parents’ love a day in your life.” 

Richie blows out, bubbling his lips and making a show. “Well. Fuck. 98% of my comedy relies on a completely unknowing audience, Eduardo.” 

“Then maybe you’re not very funny.”

“We both know you think I’m hilarious. And everyone in the sold-out Chicago theater thinks so too.”

Eddie’s brows lift up, he shrugs and bites down on his lip. Shaking his head, he says, “Fuck, dude. What kind of life do you have?” 

“The kind where I get to deduct tolls as a work expense,” Richie says with a half smile, trying not to think about how it’s all crumbling around him. 

Eddie nods and, sliding past Richie with a small breeze, he notices that he must’ve taken a shower earlier because he smells like Richie’s shampoo. He starts to slide the computer along the coffee table to bring it in towards himself, but then, he frowns. He looks up. “Hey, Rich?” 

“Yeah, Eds, man?” 

Eddie wrinkles his nose, and taps his thumb on the track pad twice. “How long were you planning on staying here?” 

Richie blinks. He looks around himself. The ruffled blankets, the closed off corners of his room. “I mean, I just woke up. But I won’t hover if you don’t want--” 

“No. I mean. In town. I know you weren’t going to just wait until I woke up.” 

“...that was kind of the idea.” 

“That could take forever! Don’t you have, y’know,” Eddie gestures to the computer screen. “A career?” 

Richie looks down at the blackness in his coffee cup, he sloshes it around in the cup, watching the drip marks fall down the sides. “I’m on an indefinite sabbatical.” 

“I didn’t know entertainers got sabbaticals.” 

“Oh, yeah, no. My manager is _super_ pissed at me. But he’ll get over it.” Or he won’t. The thing about living in the public eye is that you’re kind of dependent on public graces. And skipping out for months at a time, not booking shows or Tweeting or doing anything remotely professional and living off your savings doesn’t exactly inspire confidence. 

But - also, like, what Steve Covall doesn’t understand is that there’s no way in _hell_ that Richie’s leaving town before Eddie wakes up. 

Especially not now. Not now that Eddie’s right in front of his eyes. 

Eddie, who’s looking over at him with a skeptical look and a tight frown. “So - what - you’re just waiting around for me? With no plan?” 

“Not just you,” Richie returns quickly. “Clam chowder just isn’t good away from the East Coast, everyone knows that.” 

“You don’t like clams.” 

Richie bites his tongue. There’s no way _that_ joke would go over Eddie’s head - unknowing audience or otherwise - it’s a bit on the nose. “No. I--they’re slimy and fishy and--fuck, man. I dunno. I like trying different soups, don’t sue me!” 

Eddie frowns. “ _Seriously,_ though, Richie. This could take months. A year. Did you even think about the likelihood that I’d even wake up? It’s been weeks and I’m in fucking _deep,_ man. I was thinking last night, and, well, statistically speaking…” 

“Sure it won’t be easy.” Richie jolts up. He just has to move. He can hear his voice crack. “But, like, if we’re talking stats, what’s the percentage of coma patients who strut around all ghosty and shit?” 

Eddie leans back on the sofa. Laptop forgotten. His arms are crossed over his belly. “Dunno.” 

“We’re gonna get you out of this. You’re gonna wake up and we’re gonna--” Richie coughs. Forces another sip of coffee. It’s bitter on his tongue. “Everything’s gonna be okay. Okay?” 

“I wouldn’t have the first idea how to even start, man.” 

Richie gestures back to his computer. “Sure you do. You had the idea earlier: Google it.” 

Richie drinks more and more coffee, chews on half a toasted hot dog bun, lazily shooting a ping pong ball off the wall, eyelids fluttering shut as he misses the pong to his ping and whizzes over and hits Eddie in the head. 

The ball bounces off and he looks up, frowning, from the laptop. “Dude! What the hell?” 

“Sorry,” Richie says, tossing the racquet on the couch between them. “I’m just getting a little drowsy.” 

“Didn’t you drink, like, the entire pot of coffee?” 

“The ol’ ADHD/caffeine inversion,” Richie says. “Now I’m sleepy _and_ I can concentrate.” 

Eddie smiles, a little, and shoots back. “And that’s why you missed the volley?” 

“I’m out of Ritalin! Caffeine only works so well to self medicate.” 

“How do you _run out_ of your scrip?” 

“If I _remembered_ to renew my meds I wouldn’t _need_ them!” 

Eddie shakes his head. “Well, do you have a refill? Can you head to Keane’s and get it renewed?”  
  
“Controlled substance, gotta call my doc.” 

“Well, go _do_ that, man. Before you give yourself a heart-attack with all that coffee!” 

* * *

And, to think, how different everything was just a couple weeks ago. Back then, after they dragged Eddie into Derry Home Hospital, and Richie was tapping his leg, staring hard at a wall. Mike brought coffee. The beans went rancid in the carafe sometime earlier, but it was still something warm against the pads of Richie’s fingertips radiated right through the cheap styrofoam. 

They’d been there for hours, waiting, pacing in the clean hospital, covered in gray water and blood, washing off in the bathroom sinks. There’d been no time to process and not time come down from everything. 

They’d just killed the clown. Things were just about to get good. And Eddie was holding on for dear life. 

It wasn’t fucking fair.

Richie remembers staring - hard - at a fern in the corner, foul coffee dripping down his lower lip. He wasn’t an emergency contact (or course he wasn't; Eddie had forgotten all about him, about Them, the Losers, Derry - everything, just like Richie had) and so there was no way to know what life-saving decisions the doctors were making. There was no say, no information, and no reason for the doctors to come in and keep them updated at all. 

They were stuck, waiting for visitation, waiting for Eddie to wake up, and waiting for the time that they could celebrate what they’d done. What _Eddie_ had done; he’d hurt It. He was the one who let them all know that they could. And, if there was one thing Richie knew better than anything else, was that it wouldn’t feel like a victory if they didn’t have Eddie with them. 

Richie remembers zoning out, staring at that fern, until Ben - the fucking traitor - suggested they abandon Eddie. He tapped his fingers on the plastic arm of the chair and said, “Do you think we should go back to the Townhouse?” 

Richie could feel it in his gut, sinking like ice, but he couldn’t make out the words _Fuck no,_ or _What the fuck do you mean?_

Although, it doesn’t seem like he has to. Ben continued: “If nothing’s happened yet, I don’t think it’s going to happen tonight. We might as well get back and get some sleep and a nice shower. We’ll check back in on him tomorrow.” 

Richie shivers and Beverly stood next to him. “I’m sure there won’t be any change.” 

“You don’t fucking know that!” 

Stanley slid up next to Richie, and in that way that was always so Stanley, said, “They’re right. We can’t do anything here.” 

Richie pushed away. His eyes were burning and his glasses were broken and blood-splattered, and he wiped them stupidly on his shirt. “No! You all would’ve left him there. What if he wakes up and there’s nobody here for him?” 

“Then he’ll call and give us a piece of his mind. Come on.” 

“Besides,” Bill added in. “Do you really think he’ll w-w-want to talk to us before we take a good long shower?” 

Everyone chuckled and Richie chomped down on his cheek. Fuck. Fuck this. “Fine,” He muttered. “But only ‘cause that old lady’s staring at us and holding her nose.” 

It took two full days to get in to see Eddie, and he was already under. There wasn’t anything written about any of the Losers, but because they were the ones who brought him in, they were allowed in. Albeit, in groups of four. Richie went in with Stanley, Bev, and Ben. 

And Richie, being Richie, walked into the hospital room, and saw Eddie laid out all pale and bandaged up, and immediately blew chunks into the nearest trash can. 

He looked awful, but the bleeping - methodical and slow on the EEG - was calming. He made it. He was alive. And Richie burst into tears. Beverly put a hand on his shoulder, wet-eyed herself, and - for Richie almost fell over, but he took a deep breath, and got closer, whispering quietly between them, all these promises he had - at the time - fully intended to keep, even if it would turn out fucking impossible. 

_When Eddie wakes up -- if Eddie wakes up -- I’m gonna ---_

_Well._

Richie crossed the room, reaching out and covering the cannula in Eddie’s hand with his own. Bev, Ben, and Stanley all hung back, and Richie whispered his promise, to himself, and to Eddie, mind swirling and weak kneed. 

It’s kind of funny, in hindsight, he’d wanted to badly at the beginning of this, for nobody to find out. He couldn’t afford that. But, in that moment, in front of Eddie, comatose and sallow-skinned, he couldn’t care less. All he wanted was for Eddie to open his eyes, and Richie thought he’d take all the repercussions - just like that way. 

He thought he’d tell him about everything, way in the beginning. The moment in middle school when Richie realized that maybe not everyone found the way a boy’s voice cracked as beautiful as he did. (Followed by a million and a half helium-guzzling jokes, of course.) 

And Richie told himself that he’d tell Eddie how, even though he’d forgotten all about Derry and the Losers until recently, certain things just stuck. Like the birthday he used for his passwords, even when he forgot why November 15th was so damn important. Or how he always thought brown eyes were prettier than other colors.

He swore to himself, that when he saw Eddie again, it’ll all come out: he’d let it burst like a dam. And Eddie would look at him back, and say that he understood, call him a dick or something and then they’d… 

Find a new normal. 

But, as it turns out, just as usual, Richie is all bark and no bite. He can’t even keep his word to himself. He flaked. 

Because, maybe Eddie _did_ come to his hotel room. But, without a reason. He’d just...spawned up en route and hadn’t thought about it. And, that’s the kind of default that Richie can’t trust. And he isn’t even awake, not really. 

Richie doesn’t know why Eddie came to him, or why he’s the only one who can see or hear him, but he knows one thing: it’s too fucking complicated to risk fucking it up right now. 

* * *

The day, and most days lately, are marked with food. Richie has breakfast and coffee, flaps around the ping pong paddle, Eddie claws at his hair as he goes further and further down the Google rabbit hole. They have sandwiches for lunch - or, well, Richie has a sandwich. Eddie, with his whole gluten _thing,_ has a fucking _unwich._ Richie throws some halfhearted jabs at it, and Eddie barks back, they laugh a bit. They call Mike; he’s on a waitlist for the ghosty-astral-projection book from the book vendor. And, after a few more hours of watching the wallpaper glue dry, it’s time for dinner. 

Richie orders a pizza and breadsticks, and it doesn’t even occur to him that the pizza delivery guy doesn’t see Eddie in the room, and must think he’s one of those sad sacks that talks to an empty room to pretend like he’s not alone in the hotel room. But, whatever the pimply-nosed teenager thinks of him isn’t really Richie’s concern. 

He’s got bigger fish to fry. Namely, this whole _thing._ The events of the past forty-eight hours. 

When Eddie first knocked at his door, Richie thought he’d been dreaming. It would’ve been the third or fourth one that week, where Eddie comes bursting in. Awake. Out of the hospital. Knocking at his door. Saying, “You, Rich. It’s you.” 

It’s sappy and ridiculous. Richie hasn’t had dreams this vivid since he was fifteen, and they just keep on coming. Sometimes Richie sees himself at the hospital, and he puts his hand over the cannula on Eddie’s bruised knuckles, and Eddie’s eyes would come fluttering open and--

The same ending. The happy one. The kind of ending that doesn’t really happen in life, even if you fucking deserve one because your best friends and you defeated an evil child-eating clown. 

And - for half a moment - Richie thought he’d gotten it. Eddie was at the door, and Eddie was awake and so was Richie, because he pinched himself the second he saw Eddie on the other side of the door. And, for a moment, it was all there - all the possibility. The kind of thing other kinds of people get. 

And then - no, nevermind. It’s more magic. More supernatural. Ghosts or astral bodies or whatever. 

And - if he’s gonna be entirely frank **\---** ****

Well. Just call him Rod Serling, because he’d entered the fucking Twilight Zone. 

_A dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind._

And it’s pathetic. It’s ridiculous. Back when this all happened, when Mike called him before his show and all the memories came flooding back, Richie thought: yeah, okay, it’s a little bit of a complication, but nothing I haven’t been dealing with for the past thirty-ish years. And then came the Jade and Richie thought he was going to lose his marbles. And the Clown, and it felt like he was pulled under and away. 

And Eddie showed up. And it was like everything he’d asked for, but the exact opposite. All he’d wanted was to move the fuck on: have Eddie at his door and the rest of the Losers on speed dial. 

And, in these worlds where Eddie came to his door, maybe Eddie’d beat him to the punch, and they’re move on from _there._

Here he was, though, Eddie had come to him and it wasn’t a thing like he’d pictured it. And, because of everything else - all the supernatural doo wah and what the fuck ever - it was all wrong. 

Richie had promised himself that he’d do it, no matter what, he’d tell him. Life was too short and he’d forgotten half of it before - with everything back he told himself, with a hand over Eddie’s cold knuckles, that he wouldn’t settle for half ever again. 

He told himself he would. And now, sitting and balancing a paper plate soaking pizza grease on his knee, he has every opportunity.

If only he weren’t too much of a coward to actually do it. 

Instead: “I can’t believe you don’t have any ghost superpowers,” Richie says in the evening, throwing a popcorn kernel into the air. He attempts to catch it, but it rolls off the side of his lips. 

“I mean, I _am_ technically invisible. That’s gotta count for something. I could, like, shoplift or something.” 

“Oh, shit. Don’t get too edgy there, Eds,” Richie tosses another kernel into Eddie’s hair. 

Eddie cackles. “God, I only ever did that once.” 

“Shoplift?” 

“Yeah,” Eddie nods. “When we had to fix up Ben, back in ‘89?” 

“Right, right,” Richie chews his popcorn and swallows it slowly. “I was abandoned in the alleyway.” 

“We never would’ve gotten away with it if you were allowed to run your mouth!” 

“Hey! You’re not wrong, but it still hurts the ol’ ego!” 

They erupt into loud raucous laughter, Eddie’s head hits the back of the couch and Richie slumps back. It might not be what he’d hoped, but at least they’re finding things to do. 

Although, there’s one more thing that they haven’t discussed yet. And, at least, it’s _speakable._ “Hey, Eds?” 

“What’s up?” Eddie asks, chewing on his pizza. 

“How the fuck are we going to tell the rest of the Losers about this?” 

* * *

Apparently, and Eddie feels ridiculous sitting here and doing this, they’re going to tell the rest of the Losers over Skype. If it wasn’t so pressing, and if everyone wasn’t spread out all over the country, they might think of something a little more personable. 

But, here he is, listening to the ring on Skype, sitting next to Richie. He stares at his reflection in the computer - he can see himself. It almost makes him believe that, maybe, he’s just slowly gotten more and more visible the longer he’s here. 

After a few trills, the screen flashes to picture. Bill blinks from the other end, reading glasses hanging on his nose. The connection pixellates and, for a second, and then, Bill speaks, half a second delayed. “Hey, Richie. What’s up?” 

“So, weird question to start with, am I sitting here alone?” 

Bill frowns. “Is this a trick question, Richie?” 

“Kind of. But, do you see anyone here with me?” 

Eddie holds his breath. 

“No?” Bill blinks after a pixellated delay. “What’s going on?” 

“So, uh,” Richie scratches at the base of his neck. He sounds insane. Even Eddie would notice that. Hell, he doesn’t know what his reaction would be if he wasn’t living through it. Richie says, “So, Eddie’s still _technically_ in his coma.” 

Bill frowns. “Oh. Any updates?” 

“Uh...well... _yeah.”_ Richie looks over to Eddie and then, presses forward. Eddie hates that he doesn’t have a voice, that other people have to talk for him out of fucking necessity. What a thought - not being able to talk or say his piece in any way whatsoever. But, hell, Richie’s trying his best. “So. he’s actually here.” 

Bill blinks. “Um. What?” 

“It’s called astral projection…” Richie begins. 

* * *

Telling Stanley goes about as well as it went with Bill. Stanley nods and looks skeptical, and Eddie has to jot something down on paper and show it to the camera. 

“So, Eddie,” Stanley asks, looking at the empty screen. “How are you holding up?” 

Eddie can’t help it. He laughs. Somehow, instead of getting to brass tax, the nonchalance, the acceptance and - frankly - the awkwardness, lifts him from inside. It’s like Stanley somehow understands what it’s like to be burdened with nobody hearing you. It’s like he knows that he can’t offer a solution, and so, he’s not even bothering. 

It’s nice, and Eddie tells him that it’s going just about as well as it can. 

But, of course, Richie has to translate. 

  
  


* * *

They hang up on Stanley and make their way down the list. “We should be able to do two birds with one Skype call this time around,” Richie says, sliding the track pad over to Beverly’s name. 

“Oh? Bev and Ben?” Eddie asks. Richie nods and Eddie chuckles in one bright and bold bark of a laugh. “About fucking time.” 

“Right?” Richie laughs and presses the little green phone. The Skype dial tone fills the room, and Richie offers a little shimmy shake as they wait. Eddie laughs and shakes his head, and for a moment, it lets Richie forget the dire situation.

Then, pixellating in from the other end, Ben sits back, at ease with video conferencing. He looks well-rested, and Richie doesn’t want to be annoyed by it, as though the current comatose-Eddie situation, even without the astral projecting-Eddie situation, weren’t enough to keep absolutely everyone awake at night. 

“Hey Rich,” Ben begins, scratchy-voiced. 

“Hey,” Richie waves. He tries to adjust the screen to make sure he and Eddie are sharing the screen to the best of their ability, even though it probably looks like he’s making some kind of first-year-photography student Artistic Choice. “Where’s Bev? We--I was hoping to get both of you at once.” 

“I’m here,” Comes a voice from the other end of the room. There’s the sound of a door clicking shut (and, fuck, Ben has some nice Skype equpiment for this shit), and Beverly shows up with two mugs of coffee in her hand. They slosh out and her eyes get wide. “Oh my God! Eddie, you’re awake!” 

Ben squints and his head flips back to Beverly. Eddie squeaks and Richie falls back on the couch. Holy shit. 

Holy _fucking_ shit. 

Ben asks, “What are you talking about?” at the same time Eddie asks, “You can see me?” 

Beverly looks around between the three of them. She answers Eddie first, “Yes? What’s with the shock and awe?” 

It takes them a minute to organize, a moment to get through everything, and Ben shuffles in his seat, taking in the information he can’t see with a little more grace than Bill or Stan. 

This time, though, Eddie gets the chance to explain. And Richie listens as the man goes ten miles per minute, throwing everything in, and he has to wonder if Eds has missed getting the opportunity to use his own voice. He hopes he’ll get more chances to. 

“So, let me get this straight,” Ben asks, after Beverly repeats what Eddie had told her. “Bev, you and Richie can see Eddie’s--astral body and so far you two are the only ones who can?” 

“That’s what it sounds like.” 

“Pretty much,” Richie says, making his first interjection for a hot minute. 

“Shit.” Eddie says, suddenly. Richie and Bev look abruptly towards him and Ben follows suit, eyes blanky darting around the screen. 

“What’s up, Eds?” 

“You and Bev were the only ones who got caught in It’s deadlights.” Eddie says. 

Beverly’s hand flies up to her face and Richie shakes his head. No. Absolutely not. Fuck no. “But we killed It. For real this time. No way.” 

“What’s going on?” Ben asks. 

“The Deadlights,” Beverly says. “Maybe that’s why Richie and I can see Eddie and nobody else can.” 

“No.” Richie asserts. “We’re done with It and all It’s murdery bullshit. No.” It was over. It _had to_ be over. It was done. Right?

Eddie frowns. The lines on his forehead stand out, wrinkling with his emotive face. “What other lead do we have?” 

Richie sighs and grabs a fistful of his own hair. “Shit.” And, for extra measure, he adds: “Fuck.” 


End file.
